“What time does the steamer sail, Crang?” John Bruce bit off his words, as he looked at his watch.
“Four o'clock,” Crang mumbled.
“Walk faster!”
They stopped for a moment in front of a store. Larmon entered, and came out again almost immediately with a package under his arm.
A block farther on John Bruce hailed a passing taxi.
Fifteen minutes later, pushing through the throng on the dock, John Bruce produced the ticket, they mounted the gangway, and a steward led them to a stateroom on one of the lower decks.
John Bruce closed the door and locked it. His revolver was in his hand now.
“There isn't much time left,” he said coldly. “About ten minutes.”
At the end of five, Crang, bound hand and foot, and gagged, lay lashed into his bunk.
A bugle sounded the “All Ashore!”